The Hands I Love
by breath-of-spring
Summary: Lisbon's thoughts about Jane during her time in Cannon River.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ** Hi all, I've never written fanfiction before, but I was listening to Sarah McLachlan's beautiful rendition of "Song for a Winter's Night" (the original song was written and performed by Gordon Lightfoot—I love both versions) and it made me think of Lisbon's time in Cannon River when Jane was writing her letters. No real plot here, just Lisbon thinking about things.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "The Mentalist" or "Song for a Winter's Night."

**The Hands I Love**

**Cannon River WA, two years ago**

She never expected to miss his hands this much.

He'd been gone for well over a year, and while she was trying to build a new life for herself here in Washington, there were still moments every day when something would remind her of him and she would feel the familiar ache in her heart.

She had tried to prepare, to somehow steel herself against the pain of his absence. Back at the CBI, once the hunt for Red John had reached endgame, she'd realized that there was very little chance that Jane would stay on with the team once he'd reached his goal.

There had been times however, when she would allow herself to hope otherwise. There was the possibility, she'd reasoned, that once the Red John ordeal was over Jane would decide he was satisfied with his career as a consultant, that the work provided enough of a challenge for his capabilities, that the friendships he'd made over the years would entice him to stay.

Maybe he'll get an apartment, she had mused, or at least a few more pairs of shoes. Hell, she'd settle for a houseplant, anything that gave the slightest indication that he was planning to be around for a while.

Lisbon would snap herself out of these thoughts at this point. She had known that daydreaming about Jane staying would only make the more likely scenario harder to bear if or when it came to pass. Also, the fact that she'd been reduced to having fantasies about Jane buying a geranium was too pathetic for her to bear contemplating.

So she had tried to get used to the idea of him going away. There had been no use in trying not to fall in love with him (that ship had long since sailed) or attempting to reclaim her heart (been there, tried that), but she had done what she could. She'd constructed her own memory palace so that she could safely store every detail of the man she had come to cherish over the years: every wayward curl, every laugh line, the bluish green of his eyes, the clean smell of the soap he used.

It had taken surprisingly little effort. Her memory palace had practically built itself once she'd realized that every part of the CBI headquarters had some memory or image of Jane attached to it. He was all over the place, napping on his couch, making tea in the break room, barging in on an interrogation.

Lately though, it was images of his hands that seemed to come to mind unbidden: guiding her through a doorway with a feather-light pressure at the small of her back, shuffling a deck of cards gracefully while sharing poker tips, plucking a coin from behind Rigsby's ear with deft precision. She thought of this as she sat on her living room couch on a rainy winter night before a crackling fire, a glass of wine in one hand. And now, although it wasn't based on a memory, there was the image of his hand moving a pen across a page, writing her beautiful letters full of warmth and affection.

When the first one had arrived, she had wept with joy and relief. He was all right, he'd said, and he'd found somewhere to live, somewhere warm, somewhere he'd be safe from extradition. He'd been careful not to give too many details so as to avoid getting her in trouble with the FBI (she could hear him in her mind, another entry in her memory palace: "Deniability, Lisbon. Deniability. Your best friend."), but what he withheld in geographical description he made up for in sincerity of feeling:

"..._I want you to know how sorry I am about the consequences you and the team have had to face for being so loyal to me. You especially Lisbon are one of the most caring, steadfast people I have ever had the honour of calling my friend, and I will always regret having to leave you alone to deal with the fallout of my actions._

_ I told you years ago that I would always save you, and you in turn predicted that you would one day be fired because of me. You have no idea how sorry I am that you were right and I was wrong..."_

His words were woven with all the eloquence that she would expect from Patrick Jane. She was accustomed to his smooth-talking ways, how he would use his powers of persuasion to influence people's behaviour. This was different, though. She had never before heard him use words with such heartfelt honesty, at least not regarding his feelings about their friendship.

Well, she amended, there had been that time he'd said he loved her, and the time by the beach at sunset, but both times the effect was pretty well ruined, either by him pretending to forget what he'd said, or by the fact that he'd used his words as a ruse to ditch her. Even if it was for her protection, it still hurt.

She had felt overwhelmed after reading that first letter. The relief of knowing that he was safe combined with the unexpected depth of feeling he'd expressed had caused her tears to continue flowing freely. In spite of the blurred vision that had resulted, she'd read the letter over and over, absorbing his words, enjoying the sight of his familiar, tiny handwriting, touching the paper that his hands had touched. Maybe she'd been a little silly, holding his letter with such veneration, as if it had been some saintly relic, but she couldn't have cared less. She now had something tangible to remind her that far away though he was, he was still there, still himself.

And still thinking of her.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ** Thanks for all the lovely reviews! Here is the conclusion to this little story. It also works as a tag to "Green Light."

**Austin TX, Present Day**

Lisbon smiled warmly as she sat back and watched Jane handle the turquoise teacup she'd reunited him with for his birthday. He held it with reverence, one finger gliding gently along the barely noticeable cracks in the porcelain, a look of wonder on his face. It reminded her of how she had held the letters he'd sent her from the island.

She stored the letters in a large cardboard keepsake container that, until recently, had also held the shards of the broken teacup in a sealed plastic bag. Up until a couple of months ago, she hadn't thought she'd ever take the initiative to put the pieces back together. Back in Cannon River, she'd missed him so much that the idea of undertaking the project was too painful, especially since she hadn't known if she'd ever see him again.

Even after they'd been reunited in Austin, the timing had never been right. It had taken them a while to find their footing again with each other, in spite of the confiding nature of his letters. He'd gone back to hiding the workings of his mind. If she'd put the time and effort into repairing the cup at that point, he would have seen it for what it was: an admission not only that she loved him, but that she had loved him for years. She was too much in doubt of the nature of his feelings for her to take the risk of showing him that. Then, once Marcus had entered the picture, it hadn't seemed appropriate.

However, now that he'd confessed his love and was making sincere efforts to open up to her, she knew that repairing the cup would make the perfect birthday present, and if anyone was overdue for a happy birthday, it was Jane. She felt proud and grateful that she'd been able to do this for him.

"You look like the cat that got the canary," he said, interrupting her thoughts.

She smiled at him. "I'm just glad you like your present so much."

"I love it. I can't wait to try it out," he said as he carefully set the cup down on the table. Then he grinned as he reached his hand out to grab hers, "but first why don't you come over here and give me a birthday hug?"

She didn't need to be asked twice. She sighed in contentment as she let him pull her onto his lap sideways and settle his arms around her. They sat for a while in silence, enjoying the soft glow of the coloured lights Lisbon had strung up.

She gave his hand an affectionate squeeze as she buried her face in his neck. She'd dreamed of doing this so often during the lonely winter nights in Washington, just being able to sit with him, to hold his hand, to breathe him in. She was grateful that she'd had her own memory palace to help her remember all the little things she loved about Jane. But as he squeezed her hand in response and snuggled her closer to his chest, she couldn't help but think just how much better it felt to have the real thing.


End file.
